


Beautiful Minds Outtakes 4: Secrets of the Soul

by Soledad



Series: Beautiful Minds [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Torchwood
Genre: Clueless Sherlock, F/M, Manipulative Mycroft, Outtakes, Sneaky Ianto, beautiful minds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 13:50:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7465827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magnussen is dead and John has to bury his wife - what is he going to do with his life now? And why is Mycroft sending him to Cardiff, of all places? Sequel to BM Outtakes 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> These Season 3 AU ficlets aren’t written in chronological order. They sometimes overlap, sometimes tell the same events from different POVs, sometimes even the events themselves are a bit different. Everything is still set in the BM’verse, with all that it entails, but I do use some of the original dialogue from the episodes. Reading my story “Convergences” might help to understand the AU aspects better.
> 
> This particular story is set during “His Last Vow”, right after the wedding. However, I’ve messed up the timeline a bit, so that the whole Magnussen part will take place before the wedding. Some lines of dialogue are borrowed – in a slightly modified form – from “His Last Vow”, for obvious reasons. Reading “Outtakes 03” would be helpful if you want to understand what’s really going on.

OUTTAKES 04 – SECRETS OF THE SOUL

Magnussen’s death enables Mycroft to shatter _CAM Global News_ to a billion pieces, with no hope for a resurrection. 

Now that the man is dead and all his knowledge gone with him, it is child’s play to locate whatever actual evidence he used to have and destroy it; or secure it for future use. Mycroft isn’t above a little blackmailing himself, if the good of England requires it, and he openly admits as much. 

Appledore is thoroughly searched, cleaned of everything that has the slightest potential of becoming dangerous – and then sold to an eccentric American millionaire whose actions Mycroft finds useful to watch. Killing two birds with the same stone.

The media circus around Magnussen’s murder runs its circles in a blessedly short time. Toshiko’s name isn’t mentioned, only that the media mogul was killed because he’d tried to blackmail some foreign dignitary about their possible connections to the Toclafane eco-terrorist group – investigations are still running in that particular area, even all those years after the Canary Wharf bombing – and that the assassin was shot dead when trying to escape, in a struggle with Magnussen’s security forces.

The body of some unknown woman, kept on ice for years, is presented to provide a false identity on the shooter, as well as the bodies of two of Magnussen’s security guards, actually shot by MI5 agents when trying to keep MI5 out of Appledore by all means necessary.

“They were private mercenaries,” Mycroft explains with a shrug when Ianto asks. “Toshiko was right. This is pest control, on the grand scale.”

Toshiko’s death is explained as a car accident, supposedly having happened two days before the murder of Magnussen. In the entire media circus around the latter, the small obituary in the papers goes entirely unnoticed. John’s understated blog entry gets a lot of condolence comments, but that’s basically it, and he is grateful.

He falls into a state similar to the one after Sherlock’s fake suicide. Only that now he has Sherlock to support him; which the self-proclaimed sociopath does by pretending that nothing has happened and dragging him out to cases to distract him. Not the best coping method, perhaps, but it works. Sherlock even accepts cases below a three for John’s sake. Everything to get him out of the house, where he’d only brood and despair.

Donovan calls Sherlock a soulless monster. John just gives him a shadow of a smile and is quietly grateful.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Toshiko’s will asks for cremation and for her ashes to be scattered in the sea near Osaka. John has no idea how to accomplish that, so Sherlock – or rather Mycroft, via his PA/ninja butler/whatever – comes to the rescue once again. Two weeks after the “accident” John and Sherlock board a private airplane in the company of Toshiko’s elderly grandfather and Ianto Jones, and they set off for Japan to fulfil her last wish. 

Mr Nakamura, well beyond ninety and with a deeply lined face like brown parchment, seems strangely collected for somebody who’s just lost his favourite grandchild,

“She was always so bright and so lonely,” he says in his weak old voice. “She would do anything for those she loved; that is what got her in trouble in the first place. She wanted to save her mother, that was all. She made a terrible mistake; without Mr Holmes, she’d still be rotting in prison. She believed she owed Mr Holmes to make him safe of that horrible man.”

“At least in prison she’d be still _alive_ ,” John mutters bitterly, but Mr Nakamura shakes his head decisively.

“She wouldn’t have survived there for long; not with her mind intact. That place was made to break people like her: bright young people with the need for intellectual stimuli,” he smiles tiredly. “The younger Mr Holmes understood that. He was the one who demanded that she’d be freed from there and her mind be put to better use.”

John stares at Mr Nakamura in utter shock. All this is news for him, as neither Toshiko, nor Sherlock bothered to tell him.

“ _Sherlock_?” he repeats in disbelief. “It was _Sherlock_ who freed her?”

“It was his brother who actually had the power to do so,” Mr Nakamura corrects. “But he’d have written off my Toshiko as collateral damage, had Sherlock not intervened,” he gives the eccentric detective a fond, almost paternal look. “I suppose _he_ would have gone mad in a prison like that himself.”

John can believe _that_ , but it still surprises him that Sherlock would actually intervene on Toshiko’s behalf.

 _Sociopath, my arse!_ He thinks with fond exasperation. 

He knows Toshiko’s story by now, of course. What he hasn’t put together on his own, Sherlock has revealed to him. And despite his own strong dedication to Queen and Country, he cannot find it in him to condemn Toshiko for what she’d done.

She wasn’t a soldier, or a secret agent; she wasn’t trained to deal with terrorists. She’d panicked and did what they demanded from her, to save her mother, just as Mr Nakamura said. No more and no less.

Yes, it _was_ treason. She _did_ build a functioning experimental weapon based on faulty blueprints for the terrorists, ‘cause she was that brilliant. The same weapon she used to rid the world of Magnussen. The only weapon that could be smuggled into Appledore without setting off the security alarms.

But at least she didn’t do it to sell it on the black market and become disgustingly rich. _And_ she paid the price. She went to prison; then she spent years in Mycroft’s employ, with no hope to be free of him, ever. _And_ she was ready to go back to prison, to pay her debts.

“She _was_ going to tell you the truth, you know,” Mr Nakamura says quietly. “She didn’t want to live a lie; even if you’d left her for it. She respected you too much for that.”

“I always knew there was some dark secret in her past; one that left her to Mycroft’s questionable mercy,” John replies thoughtfully. “But when we got engaged and Mycroft made no attempts to stop us, I thought if was all settled.”

“Actually, it was touch and go for a while,” Ianto, sitting opposite them and working on his PDA looks up briefly. “Mr Holmes was concerned about Sherlock going over the edge upon losing you.”

“The meddlesome git!” Sherlock mutters, but – uncharacteristically – there isn’t any true poison in his voice. Ianto ignores him with practiced ease.

“In one thing Magnusson was right,” he says to John. “The only true pressure point of Sherlock was _you_. Mr Holmes has known that from the beginning; and he was sorely tempted to break you and Toshiko up, so that Sherlock wouldn’t lose you.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” John erupts. “We’ve never been a couple or whatever! How many times do I have to tell everyone that I’m _not_ gay?”

Ianto smiles, unperturbed. It’s almost creepy, in a way.

“I know that, Dr Watson; and so does Mr Holmes. But Sherlock has become dependant on your company; on your positive influence; on your understanding and admiration. He’s never had a true friend before, and Mr Holmes was concerned that he’d react badly to losing all that again.”

John mulls that over. He has to admit that Ianto – and, in extension, Mycroft – are right. Sherlock would never admit, but he _did_ seem more than a little lost after his return, when he had to realise that John wouldn’t go back to Baker Street; to him. That he’d gone on with his life and was about to get married.

“So, why didn’t Mycroft interfere, after all?” he asks.

“I talked him out of it,” Ianto replies with a shrug and a smile.

John glares at him suspiciously. “Just like that?”

“I might have applied a little pressure,” Ianto admits.

“You mean you _blackmailed_ him?” John clarifies, truly stunned. “You blackmailed Mycroft-almighty-Holmes and you’re still _alive_? What can you _possibly_ know about him?”

“It’s not like that,” Ianto protests; then, after a moment, he corrects himself. “Not entirely. Let’s just say that I’ve got some leverage no-one else has. Not even Sherlock.”

“That must be _some_ leverage,” John says, still in awe. “I’d dearly love to know _what_ it is.”

The hungry look on Sherlock’s face reveals that he’s not the only one. He can almost see the cogwheels rattle in his friend’s brilliant mind at maximum speed.

“You will,” Ianto promises. “Mr Holmes gave me permission to tell you, and I will. Later. In private,” he glances at Mr Nakamura apologetically. “No offence intended, sir.”

“None taken,” the old man assures him. “I don’t think it would be healthy for me to know anyway.”

“Probably not,” Ianto agrees, and they remain silent for the rest of their journey, each one occupied with their own thoughts.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
In Osaka, they meet Mrs Sato, who has little resemblance to her daughter, and Yoshi, Toshiko’s younger brother, who has a _lot_ , including a strong affinity for mathematics. They are so alike that it almost hurts.

They take in John with the warm naturalness of family, as if they had known him all their lives. They seem also overjoyed by the presence of Mr Nakamura, whom they apparently haven’t seen for years, and they, too, are oddly collected when it comes to the fact of Toshiko’s death.

They apologise for not being able to put them all up in their tiny little flat, although Ianto has booked room for them in a comfortable, middle-class hotel well in advance. Mr Nakamura opts for staying with his family, which is understandable, and John leaves the urn with the ashes with them.

 _He_ , at least, had the chance to spend the last three years with Toshiko, unlike her mother and brother. They would need some privacy to speak their farewells to daughter and sister, too.

So it’s just him and Sherlock who check into the hotel with Ianto. They have their rooms on the same floor, and once they’ve got settled and had a shower, Sherlock – who, of course, did listen to their conversation on the plane – begins to interrogate Ianto.

“Out with it, Jeeves! What can you _possibly_ have in hand against my brother to make him back off? He _never_ backs off, once his mind is made up.”

“If you wouldn’t so hastily delete even the tiniest detail about your brother’s private life, you’d have realised years ago what the rest of the family, the family lawyers and the family accountant has known ever since I first appeared on the stage,” Ianto replies with a truly wicked grin. “Even Toshiko knew.”

“She knew _what_?” Sherlock demands impatiently, while John’s jaw hits the floor as realisation begins to dawn on him.

Ianto nods at the doctor briefly before turning to his still completely clueless uncle.

“That I’m your brother’s son,” he says simply.

For several long moments Sherlock makes the very convincing impression of a gutted fish, expressions of shock, disbelief, jealousy and even repulsion flickering across his face almost too quickly for the human eye to follow, his mouth literally hanging open. Finally, he closes it with a semi-audible _click_ and settles for repulsion.

 _And_ denial.

“Impossible,” he says. “Mycroft is gay. Has been since the age of twelve; probably even before.”

Ianto just shrugs and points out the obvious.

“That doesn’t make him incapable of siring progeny. As far as I know I’m the result of a brief period in his life when he was trying to fit into heteronormative lifestyle as it was expected from him.”

He pauses, and then dryly adds. “Obviously, it didn’t last.”

The way he pronounces _obviously_ is such a perfect imitation of Mycroft that John can’t quite suppress a nervous giggle.

“What happened?” he then asks.

Ianto shrugs again. “Apparently, his father didn’t approve of his lowly born Welsh girlfriend and forced him to end the relationship. My mother only realised that she was pregnant when he’d already left her.”

“Did she tell him?” John asks.

Somehow he can’t imagine that Mycroft would abandon his unborn child, no matter how socially unacceptable the child’s mother would be seen by the Holmes clan. Mycroft might be a creepy bastard, but he takes family obligations very seriously.

“No,” Ianto replies, confirming John’s suspicions. “She wanted me to have a normal, happy childhood, without some posh git messing it up. My Tad… I mean my maternal uncle, was the only one who knew. She and Mam – that is, my aunt – adopted me when my mother died in childbirth and raised me together with their daughter, Rhiannon, as their own. Rhi and I are only five years apart, so it worked well enough. I didn’t know I was adopted, either, until Tad died right when I started university. The documents were attached to his will.”

“And so you went and sought out your biological father?” John asks, darkly amused. “I just can imagine Mycroft’s face when you showed up on his doorstep.”

“I didn’t, actually,” Ianto replies. “I was content with being a Jones. But Tad had a copy of the same documents sent to Mr Holmes, to give us both the chance to seek out the other one if we wanted. I didn’t. _He_ , on the other hand, did.”

“Of course he did,” Sherlock snorts. “You were a godsend. Your existence stopped Mummy pestering him for a grandchild, without him having to bother with getting married in the first place.”

John shakes his head in bewilderment. “The entire family knew _except_ you? How is that possible?”

“At that time he was working with the police already, of which Lady Holmes didn’t exactly approve,” Ianto explains dryly. “And so he simply refused to talk to the rest of the family. The funny part is, he was the first of them to actually meet me; I was a barista at _Angelo’s_ , trying to put myself through economy school.”

John actually laughs at that. “A Holmes, working for a living, like the rest of us low-lives! I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I’m not really a Holmes,” Ianto corrects. “We do share some genetics, true, but I was raised as a working class Welshman and am proud of it, much to the chagrin of Lady Holmes. Actually, Aunt Diane is the only one of the family who can bear to breathe the same air with me.”

“Small wonder; she was always unduly fond of Mycroft,” Sherlock mutters; then he breaks into a wide, manic grin. “I bet Francine got a coronary when she learned about you!”

Turning to the baffled John, he adds as an explanation. “Francine is Mummy’s housekeeper, something between a lady’s maid and a female dragon. She barely considers _us_ worthy Mummy’s presence and certainly didn’t see Father that way. Tish Jones, my brother’s PR chief, is her daughter… with a completely unexplainable crush on Mycroft. I bet she started hoping again when you showed up,” he says, turning back to Ianto.

Ianto nods. He’s aware of this and he feels truly sorry for Tish Jones with whom he already worked with at the ill-fated Torchwood Institute.

“All in vain, I’m afraid,” he says in agreement. “But there’s precious little any of us could do about it; including Mr Holmes. He values Tish too much to use her as a disguise, just to fit the expected cliché better.”

“You mean he finds it more useful to dangle the vague hope in front of her nose than to fire her for her inappropriate crush,” Sherlock corrects with a derisive snort.

“No,” Ianto replies, his usually friendly voice growing cold. “I reckon you don’t know your brother half as well as you’d like to believe, _Uncle_ ,” the sarcasm is thick as he emphasises the word. “Don’t let your prejudices blind you, just ‘cos Mr Holmes let you get away with too much.”

John shakes his head in tolerant amusement. “You call your own father Mr Holmes? I didn’t think that even Mycroft would be _that_ stuffy.”

Ianto shrugs. “It’s practical. It prevents us from slipping. And we’re not particularly close anyway; I was a grown man when we learned of each other – a grown man with a background that didn’t exactly appeal to him.”

“But you still like him,” John says, because despite everything, _that_ much is obvious.

Ianto nods. “I do. He is… difficult on the best days, but he does have his moments. And he’s fiercely protective of those he considers _his_. Including the ones who are thankless and abusive towards him,” he adds with a pointed glare in Sherlock’s direction, who mutters something less than complimentary under his breath. 

In Serbian.

But John, who’s seen the extreme lengths Mycroft is willing to go to protect his wayward brother, nods in agreement. He might not _like_ Mycroft – few people do – who is a manipulate bastard on a good day (and whose exact role in Toshiko’s death he still hasn’t figured out), but he knows that Mycroft would do _anything_ to protect Sherlock.

No matter who else gets hurt in the process.

It’s tragicomical how often Sherlock manages to get into deep shit despite all his brother’s efforts, though. As if he’d do it out of sheer spite; something John wouldn’t put beyond him.

The even more surprising fact is that not only did he acknowledge a previously unknown son raised in a lowly Welsh family but, as it seems, he also earned Ianto’s respect. They may never come out with the truth, or show any public signs of affection even if they do – they are both Holmeses, after all – but Ianto seems to have fit into Mycroft’s shadowy world of secrets and conspiracies well enough. 

He doesn’t appear to mind blending into the background and working from here. Just like his father. They might have more in common than anyone – even Ianto himself – might believe, and John catches himself by speaking it out loud.

“You’re a lot like him, you know,” he says.

Ianto actually _laughs_ at that. 

“No, I’m not. Not really. We may work under similar conditions, but I actually have a life outside work; and enjoy it a great deal,” he looks at his watch. “Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll go to bed now. We’ll have an early start tomorrow and switching time zones always makes me groggy. Especially so many time zones.”

John and Sherlock have no objections. They’re drained, too, both physically and emotionally, although Sherlock would never admit the latter. So Ianto wishes them a good night and returns to his own room to have some rest. Before he’d actually go to bed, though, he sends a text to his father.

_Told SH and JW about us. Thought it better to drop one bombshell at a time. Any news about Mary? IJ_

The answer comes immediately, making him wonder if his father sleeps even less now that he’s not there to pester him about it.

_Good thinking, my boy. Mary’s papers are almost ready. Pass and ID should be available through the usual sources in two days. MH_

Ianto hates being called boy, but this is the closest thing Mycroft would ever come to being affectionate and so he tolerates it, knowing that his father needs these small signs of affection – the proof that he _can_ make them, after all – more than he does. Their relationship is still in the slowly developing phase; he needs to be patient with the brilliant, lonely, broken man who sired him. This is all newland for Mycroft, even after all the years that have gone in-between; he doesn’t lower his shields easily, not even for a short time.

The last part of the message makes Ianto sleep much better, though. This is a delicate operation, and time is something of an issue. But his father’s organisation works with the usual efficiency, and so he can hope for a successful outcome.

And he does hope for that; for John’s sake, who more than deserves it. If only as a reward for putting up with Sherlock.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The funeral on the next day is a simple affair, overshadowed by much quiet sadness. The damned press has somehow managed to catch wind of it – Sherlock sends acerbic texts to his brother commenting on his failure to keep even such a small event private – but neither the inscrutable expressions of the Satos nor John’s understated grief provides them with anything interesting to report. They take a few photographs of the ashes being scattered over the sea and of the family returning home, but that’s basically all about it.

Tomorrow, a few insipid articles will appear in the tabloids, John is sure about that, coming up with even more hair-raising theories about why Toshiko would have shot Magnussen. They did that right after the events, and the funeral is a welcome occasion to dig them out again. They might even speculate about him and Sherlock and their so-called bromance. Some of them might do a little homework and find out something about Mr Nakamura’s past, presenting him in a romantic light, to press on the tear ducts some more. 

But after a few days the tiny sensation will be over, making room for the latest scandal in the world of film stars, football players or politicians, and he’ll finally be able to grieve in peace. For his wife whom he had for such a short time. And for their child who never got the chance to be born, in the first place.

After the funeral Mrs Sato asks them all to come back to her and Yoshi’s shared little flat. Holding a vigil is not a custom in their family, she explains, but she would like to know the man who made her daughter so happy a little better. Even if that happiness didn’t last long.

The flat itself is of Spartan simplicity: a single room, sparsely furnished and traditionally divided into two small bedrooms and a modest living room by artfully painted paper screens that are fastened on wooden frames. There is not much privacy in that home. Only the tiny kitchen and bathroom are truly separate.

The living area is dominated by a low, square table around which the guests have to sit on flat pillows, and John can’t quite suppress a quiet grunt of pain while he tries to find a semi-comfortable position for his bad leg. It’s been acting up, ever since the final confrontation with the late, unlamented Charles Augustus Magnussen, and it’s got even worse since Toshiko’s death.

The fact that he _knows_ it is psychosomatic doesn’t make the symptoms any less unpleasant.

Yoshi realises his discomfort, of course, and makes apologetic faces at him.

“I’m really sorry, John. I know we don’t have the most comfortable environment. Our mother has taken a turn to the sterner traditions after father’s death. This is not exactly how I would imagine my ideal place to live, either.”

“Then why are you still living here?” Sherlock asks dismissively. “A man of your age and your extraordinary mind surely can afford a flat on his own… oh!” 

He trails off as realisation dawns. 

“Of course. Sentiment. You feel guilty because you weren’t there for your sister, back when she had to deal with the terrorists that threatened your mother. She made a decision that cost her job and her freedom – because make no mistake, being indentured to work for _Mycroft_ is just another kind of prison – so you felt you owed her to care for your mother when Mycroft had her forcibly repatriated.”

He paused and gave the young man a reproachful look. “You gave up your own hopes for a bright future that could have made you a name-worthy scientist – Toshiko was extraordinary at maths but she always said you were better and I trust her to know what she was talking about – to become the house-sitter of an embittered old woman who never managed to get over the death of her husband and wastes her life with following a centuries-old tradition she knows nothing about and doesn’t truly believe in.”

“Sherlock!” John interrupts sternly. “Very not good, this!”

“But I’m right, am I not?” Sherlock whirls around to face Mrs Sato, which isn’t an easy manoeuvre in his position, sitting on the floor. “You aren’t truly a traditionalist, are you? After all, both you and your husband served in the RAF, and Toshiko told me – well, she told _John_ – that she’d learned to like jazz music from you. So what happened? Why were you incapable of getting a grip on your own life and became dependant on the care of your children, ruining both their lives? You’re not _that_ old!”

“That’s quite enough, Sherlock!” John tells him in his best ‘Captain Watson’ voice which, under different circumstances, would make Sherlock back off.

That it doesn’t work now is telling. Telling that somewhere deep down, despite his own best judgement, he might actually agree with Sherlock. 

The great git deduces _that_ in a second, of course, perhaps by the way John’s shoelaces are hanging or somesuch, and turns back to him with renewed zeal. (The floorboards might catch fire from the friction if he keeps doing that.)

“But don’t you see it, John?” he demands angrily. “ _Two_ brilliant minds sacrificed to assist a woman wallowing in self-pity! Yoshiro could be a research scientist by now, or a university professor at Oxford or Cambridge, and Toshiko would be still alive, if this woman could have pulled himself together twenty years ago.”

“Perhaps,” John allows reasonably. “But in that case I’d never have met Toshiko, so what would be _my_ gain?”

That logical argument shuts Sherlock up more efficiently than any shouting in the world could have done, and Ianto releases a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. Still, he knows that damage control is part of his duties around his uncle, so he clears his throat and gives a shocked Mr Nakamura, a deathly pale Mrs Sato and a furious Yoshi an apologetic glance.

“I apologise on behalf of Mr Holmes,” he says politely. “He’s a genius, but his social graces are… lacking, on a good day. Unfortunately, this is not one of his best days. He never has those outside of London.”

Mr Nakamura accepts the apology with a nod and with stone-faced dignity, but Yoshi is not so easily placated. He glares daggers at Sherlock.

“How do you _dare_!” he hisses. “You don’t have a clue what family truly means! Both Toshiko and myself were more than willing to take care of our mother, regardless of the price, and we’d do so again in a second!”

“That still doesn’t mean it’s not a waste,” Sherlock replies dismissively. “You as a scientist shouldn’t allow sentiment to cloud your thinking. That’s for inane teenaged girls, not for minds that actually can be used for something better.”

“Yeah, because being a rude, condescending bastard is so much better!” Yoshi mutters angrily.

“You’re mistaking me for my brother,” Sherlock returns with a hideously false smile.

John rubs the bridge of his nose as if that could help to force back the headache building up steadily behind his eyes. Which is an illusion, of course, but he can’t help trying.

“Sherlock,” he says with forced patience. “You do realise that the woman whose life you’ve just summarily declared a complete waste was my _wife_ , right? My wife, who’s sacrificed everything to pay her debts to _your_ brother? My wife who was my only support while _you_ were gallivanting all over the globe, playing superhero? So, if you don’t want me to become overly sentimental and break your nose, you should probably shut up. _Now_.”

His voice is calm and collected and more frightening than any of them had ever heard him speaking. The voice of a man who’s reached the end of his tether and is about to break down. Spectacularly and very, _very_ messily.

“You’ve already tried that when he came back,” Ianto says, his voice soft and eerily calm. “It didn’t work then. It would work even less now.”

He rises (with a minimum of difficultly, John realises with considerable envy) and walks around the table to stand in front of his uncle.

“I think it’s time for us to go,” he says with quiet authority. “You’ve caused enough damage for one day, don’t you think? We should give Dr Watson the chance to spend some undisturbed time with his in-laws,” he glances at Mr Nakamura briefly. “Our plane sets off in two days, should you want to come back to London with us, sir. Dr Watson can give you the exact time of departure.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Mr Nakamura simply nods again, and Ianto leaves, with a surprisingly accommodating Sherlock in tow, leaving John alone with the family of his deceased wife. He spends the rest of the day with them which is, frankly, rather uncomfortable, as the only one he’s got anything in common with is Mr Nakamura, and they’ve run off of shared interests on the flight here already.

Mrs Sato decides to perform the formal _chayi_ tea ceremony in remembrance of her lost daughter – who actually preferred coffee, at least during work – including a full _cha-kaiseki_ meal, served in the traditional lacquered bowls, followed by confections, thick tea and thin tea. It lasts almost four hours, spent crouching on the floor in a fairly uncomfortable position. 

At the end John is in agony, unable to get up without Yoshi’s help, who’s quietly apologetic.

“Sorry about the discomfort,” he says. “Mother’s really gone overboard with the traditional stuff. I tried to talk her out of inflicting it upon you – _and_ Grandfather, who’ll probably have leg cramps for the rest of the week – but she’s very stubborn.”

“It’s her way to cope,” John shrugs. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“There is, if she forces others to participate,” Yoshi replies. “Your friend might be rude, but he wasn’t entirely wrong.”

“That’s the problem with him,” John mutters. “He rarely is, and he can’t keep it to himself. That’s why he pisses off so many people.”

“Toshiko liked him nonetheless,” Yoshi smiles wistfully. “He helped her to get in touch with us from time to time, without the knowledge of his brother.”

“I bet he did,” John replies with a crooked grin. “Sherlock would never miss the opportunity to piss off Mycroft. That’s his favourite pastime when there are no cases to solve. Speaking of which,” he adds, glancing at his watch, “I’d better go back to our hotel before he and Ianto kill each other.”

“Is that young man so short-tempered?” Mr Nakamura asks with a frown. John smiles tiredly.

“Ianto? Not as a rule, no. He works for Mycroft, after all, and can’t afford temper tantrums. But Sherlock can try the patience of a saint.”

Mr Nakamura nods I thoughtful agreement. “He seems to do that, yes. You better go and save them from each other, then. We’ll see us at the start. When is it exactly?”

“8 am, sharp,” John looks at his grandfather-in-law in surprise. “You’re coming back with us, then?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” the old man says. “But I’ll see you off in any case. That’s the least I can do. You are family, after all.”


	2. Part Two

In the next morning – after a night full of nightmares, of which Sherlock wakes him up four times because, of course, he decides to camp out in John’s room, just in case – Mr Nakamura shows up at the airport indeed… with his suitcase packed and ready to take off.

“I do love my daughter,” he explains, “but I’m too old to waste my time on traditions I never cared for. Besides, I need my modest creature comforts, and I have a better chance to get them in my own home, in London.”

Yoshi has brought him to the airport, partly to make sure he’d arrive safely and partly because he wants to say his farewells to John properly. John is glad to see his brother-in-law one more time. Yoshi reminds him so much of Toshiko that it almost hurts, but it’s a good kind of hurt, full of fond memories.

“It’s still not too late to move to England,” he says. “Your grandfather, I’m sure, could use the company; it would be better for him _not_ to live alone. I’ll look after him as well as I can, of course, but I have to work. Plus, Sherlock tends to make my life unpredictable at the best of times.”

“Oh, thank you, John!” Sherlock comments dryly; then he, too, turns to Yoshi. “Stop wasting your life on somebody who neither needs you nor truly appreciates your _care_ ,” he almost spats the word. “Mycroft could find a dozen places where your talent would be put to best use. He loves to meddle with people’s lives, but sometimes he does have his uses, too.”

“We’ll see,” Yoshi replies evasively and shakes hands with Ianto, who gives him a plain business card with nothing but a name and a phone number on it.

“Call this number, should you change your mind and refer to me,” Ianto says. “I’ll prepare Tish to accept your call.”

Yoshi promises to do so – _if_ he decides to move to the UK, that is, then he takes his leave to go to work. His job is uninspiring and badly paid, but he cannot afford to lose it.

John, Sherlock and Ianto board the plane with Mr Nakamura and prepare themselves for the long flight home. The air hostess (presumably one of Mycroft’s agents) turns the seats into fairly comfortable beds by pushing some buttons and moving some levers right after the take-off, and the old man and Ianto are soon fast asleep.

John, however, cannot, and Sherlock hardly ever sleeps anyway. So they talk… sort of. Mostly, Sherlock is he one doing the talking, the main intention of which is trying to persuade John to move back to 221B with him. He misses John, though he wouldn’t admit it; that would be _sentiment_ , and Sherlock Holmes doesn’t _do_ sentiment. Instead, he tries to find logical arguments.

“Even with Toshiko’s savings going to you, you won’t be able to afford a three-bedroom-flat on your own,” he argues, trying to be tactful and failing miserably, as always. Still, it somehow warms John’s heart with the sheer familiarity of it.

“If you come back, we can split the rent again, and Mrs Hudson can look after both of us,” Sherlock continues, frankly grasping for straws.

“She’s _not_ your housekeeper, Sherlock,” John reminds him, smiling.

Sherlock shrugs. “Labels. Semantics. Boring. She likes you, though, and worries about you. It would put her mind at ease if she could keep a motherly eye on you. Besides, she loved Toshiko, too; treated her as a daughter while she was living in 221C. Having you move back would help her with her own grief.”

Sherlock never cared much about other people’s grief, not that John would know. This is merely a rather transparent effort to lure John back to Baker Street without appearing too clingy, but John doesn’t really mind. Because it is true hat he _won’t_ be able to afford the flat in Queen Anne Street on his own – he’s glad now that he hadn’t managed to buy the practice yet – and honestly, _where_ should he go? 

Moving in with Harry? They’d kill each other in no time. Renting some run-down bed-sit? Been there, done that, he still gets the depressions when he remembers those days after returning from Afghanistan. 

At least Sherlock genuinely _wants_ him to move back in. His reasons might be a tad selfish, but he _needs_ John, on a deeply emotional level he’d never admit to possess, and John _likes_ to be needed. That is part of the reason why he chose to become a doctor.

Plus, life with Sherlock is never boring; and while it may be hectic and dangerous, at least he won’t have the _time_ to fall back into depressions while following the madman all over London.

“Very well,” he says with a weary sigh but he can’t completely suppress the excitement bubbling deep within him. “Have it your way. I _will_ go back to Baker Street.”

“Excellent!” Sherlock whips out his phone and fires off several rapid text messages; his thumbs are but a blur, so fast is he. “Mycroft’s minions will have your things moved back by the time we arrive.”

John just shakes his head tolerantly. He’s come to accept the fact that his life isn’t his own anymore when he lets a Holmes – whichever Holmes – meddle with it. For the time being, however, he doesn’t really mind. He’s too weary to care; and he doesn’t want to be alone.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
His old room at 221B is indeed waiting for him when they arrive; everything placed the same way it used to be when he still shared the flat with Sherlock. He wonders if Mycroft’s people used old surveillance videos to get everything right. He wouldn’t put it beyond them – _or_ beyond their boss.

Speaking of the man himself, Mycroft is sitting in their living room when they arrive, his ever-present umbrella hanging from the back of John’s armchair.

“My sincerest condolences, John,” he says with as much sincerity as he can manage on a good day. “I hope everything in Japan was organised to your satisfaction.

John nods. “Yes; thank you for that, Mycroft. I’d never have managed that on my own.”

Mycroft gives him a sickly sweet smile. “No, I’m sure you wouldn’t, John, Well; I’m sure you won’t mind if I asked you a small favour in exchange.”

John doesn’t mind; not really. In fact, he’d mind a lot more to stay in Mycroft’s debt. He actually welcomes the chance to return the favour… unless it’s something that would go against his principles.

“What kind of favour?” he asks.

“Nothing that would disagree with your moral compass,” it’s frustrating sometimes how well Mycroft, too, can read him; just like Sherlock. “An… acquaintance of mine is in need of medical assistance. Simply, I’d like you to take her as a private patient.”

“That’s all?” John asks in surprise, and Mycroft nods.

“That’s all. There’s a twist, though: she’s currently living in Cardiff, where she teaches at the university, and her contract runs for another year. So you’d have to visit her there regularly. I’ll come up for the expenses, of course.”

“She’s so important to you?” John feels vaguely suspicious.

“Let’s say that I’ve invested a great deal into her,” Mycroft replies with an elegant shrug. “I’d hate to see all that effort wasted.”

“Is she terminally ill then?” John asks with a frown. “Mycroft, you know I’m just a locum GP, not a specialist. I can’t even operate any longer, unless it’s an emergency where no other surgeon is available and the patient would die otherwise.”

“I know that, John, don’t worry,” Mycroft say a little impatiently. “She’s not terminally ill. In fact, she’s not really ill at all. However, she does have a… _condition_ that requires frequent and regular control. And as she can’t leave Cardiff, she needs a doctor who would visit her and looks after her well-being.”

John considers the request for a moment. That sounds like one of Mycroft’s hush-hush cases; probably someone from a witness protection program or whatever. An overall safe job, even if a little tedious. On the other hand, getting on the train to Cardiff from time to visit a woman of ill health isn’t too complicated a task for an experienced doctor. And getting away from London – and from Sherlock – time and again might actually prove relaxing.

“All right,” he says. “I’m in. Who is this woman and where do I find her?”

“Her name is Mary Morstan,” Mycroft hands him a business card. “This is her address. I’ve already taken the liberty of scheduling an appointment for next week; Wednesday, 4 p.m. Anthea says you’re free on that afternoon.”

“Of course you would,” John mutters, studying the card, but without any true venom. Mycroft is Mycroft; he likes to be the puppet master and won’t likely change. 

What surprises John a little is that Sherlock doesn’t protest against Mycroft using John for his own purposes. But again, Sherlock isn’t an idiot. He knows how to pick his battles, and he probably doesn’t want to raise Mycroft’s ire after he’s gone against his brother’s wishes – repeatedly – in the Magnussen case.

Not that Sherlock’s opinion really counts in this, of course. John has accepted the job, and that’s that.

“All right,” he says again. “I’ll go and meet her.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
A week later John is sitting in the train to Cardiff, vaguely curious about his private patient. Anthea came over on the previous evening, delivering the train tickets and a description of how to find he address in Cardiff the easiest, but John has already decided to take a cab. 

He can figure out later how to get to his patient; _if_ the job proves to be permanent indeed. Right now, he’s too exhausted, both physically and emotionally, to care about expenses.

The cab takes him to a suburban area of Cardiff, near the _Providence Park_ psychiatric hospital and he briefly wonders if that has any meaning or not. In any case, it is a quiet, friendly neighbourhood, and the semi-detached house at which the cab finally pulls up is a nice yet modest one. The front doors open directly from the street, from a narrow, arched terrace, but it has a small back yard about the size of a handkerchief, presumably shared by the inhabitants of both house-halves.

The entire street – and the neighbouring ones, as far as John can tell – consist of similar buildings. This must have been an estate built by the city of Cardiff, around the 1960s, if the architecture is any indication. Excellently suited by its uniformity for someone who needs to stay under the radar.

John pays the fare and waits for the cabbie to drive away, just in case. There’s no need for anyone to know whom he’s visiting. Then he hobbles up onto the terrace – his bad leg keeps acting up, and it doesn’t look like it would stop any time, soon – and looks at the identical twin doors.

The one on the left-hand side has a label that sports two different names: K Swanson and E Conway – either a flatshare or a woman who’s kept her maiden name in marriage. A child-sized bicycle and some toys in that corner of the terrace make the latter more likely. The other door’s name tag simply says: Morstan. John presses the doorbell button on that side.

A pleasant sound like chimes can be heard through the door, and soon a spy hole opens right in front of him, and a low-pitched, business-like female voice asks:

“Can I help you?”

“My name is Dr John Watson,” he replies, wondering if the patient comes equipped with a bodyguard; he wouldn’t put _that_ beyond Mycroft, either, especially if she’s an important witness. “I’m here to see Ms Morstan. I understand that Mr Holmes had her informed in advance.”

Now the door opens just a crack, but it’s still clearly secured by a chain from within. A dark eye peers out at him through the crack.

“Do you have any documents to prove your identity?”

“Just a moment,” John fumbles with his wallet, takes out his ID card and shoves it through the crack.

This is getting ridiculous; or else the patient is seriously endangered. Which would explain why she can’t come up to London. She would probably be recognised and killed on sight. But if that’s so why doesn’t Mycroft arrange cosmetic surgery for her? Or is _that_ what he’s supposed to prepare her for?

In the next moment he gets his ID card back and the door opens wider – barely wide enough to allow him in – revealing a regal black woman in a charcoal grey trouser suit. Her jet-black hair is in a great number of thin plaits, pulled into a tight ponytail on the back of her head, and John’s experienced eye can spot the gun holster under her suit jacket. 

A professional, then. And a careful one at that. But that’s not really surprising. Mycroft only takes the best and brightest into his employ.

“Sorry for that,” she says, “but we must be extra careful until the necessary measures can be taken. It’s still early days,” then she extends her hand. “I’m Detective Swanson from the Cardiff Police; and also Ms Morstan’s next-door neighbour.”

“A practical arrangement,” John shakes the proffered hand. “Not that it would surprise me, given the man behind this operation… whatever it is. John Watson; but you know that already, right? Now, where’s my patient?”

“She’s upstairs, with my daughter,” Detective Swanson explains. “We use the ground floor as an added security buffer; she doesn’t really need these rooms.”

“Aren’t you endangering your kid by leaving her in the care of somebody who needs to be watched this closely?” John asks in surprise.

Detective Swanson shrugs. “Neema likes her; and it helps keeping up appearances. What’s more believable than my neighbour babysitting when both me and my flatmate are at work? Besides, it’s only a moderate risk; and until the condition of our client allows cosmetic surgery to be arranged. And until then I can watch my daughter, too. Ironically, I spend more time with her now than during the usual police work.”

John can believe _that_. Police officers work gruelling, irregular hours; that’s what destroyed Lestrade’s marriage, despite every effort to save it. 

He also understands the whole situation better. The patient is about to get a new face, but the cosmetic surgery cannot be done right now, due to some unspecified medical condition. _His_ job will be to check on her regularly and decide when it can be made. 

He can do that. And if Detective Swanson lets her daughter spend time with the patient, then she can’t be some sort of murderer or drug dealer or double agent who’s made a deal with MI5 or some other agency in exchange for personal freedom.

“Fine,” he says. “Can I see my patient now?”

“Sure, come with me,” Detective Swanson leads him upstairs (John makes a mental note to ask for these medical checks to take place on the ground floor in the future, to spare his bad leg), into a friendly and airy kitchen, the windows of which go to the tiny back yard.

Dinner is gently simmering in the oven, smelling deliciously of garlic and something John can’t quite identify but he’s sure it belongs to Chinese cuisine. At the kitchen table an adorable, dark-skinned and curly-haired girl is working on a jigsaw puzzle that seems way too complicated for an eight-year-old that she appears to be. 

But she isn’t willing to give up just yet. Instead, she looks up to her babysitter.

“Mary, can you help me?” she asks. “This piece doesn’t fit in anywhere.”

The babysitter, a small, slender woman with a strawberry blonde pixie cut, steps behind her, takes the piece from her hand and moves it to the other edge of the half-finished puzzle.

“It’s because you’ve tried to fit it into the sky,” she says in a shockingly familiar voice. “But it belongs to the waves. It’s a different shade of blue, you see?” She drops a kiss on the top of the girl’s head and looks up. “Is something the matter, Kathy?”

“Dr Watson is here,” Detective Swanson tells her. “You two can talk in the living room. I’ll stay with Neema.”

The blonde woman opens the door to the adjoining small, cosy living room and John follows her, his heart hammering wildly.

_That voice! But it can’t be, can it?_

The door is firmly shut behind them, and the woman looks up to him through wire-rimmed glasses. The nose and the jawline are all wrong – most likely a temporary prosthetic job as he can’t see any marks of a recently performed surgery – and so is the colour of the eyebrows and eyelashes, but other than that…

“ _Toshiko_?” he asks in stunned disbelief, and his not-quite-dead wife nods.

“I’m sorry to have you put through all that grief again, John, right after the thing with Sherlock, I really am. But there was no way I could have avoided going back to prison after I’d shot that jackal Magnussen. Mr Holmes offered me a new identity, but for that I _had_ to die first… officially, at least. I had to die, be buried and be mourned for, if I wanted to return to you. _If_ you’d still have me.”

“So, those press vultures at your funeral…” John trails off but Toshiko knows what he means anyway and nods. 

“Mr Holmes’s people tipped them off anonymously, so that there would be visual proof. People tend to believe what they see in the press.” 

“And Sherlock knew about it, of course,” John says, mildly annoyed by the parallels with Sherlock’s fake suicide. 

Toshiko actually laughs at that. “You don’t really think we could have kept it from him? The last thing we needed was him going after the assassins who presumably killed me. He’d have figured it all out in no time.” 

John shakes his head. “I’m not sure. He never figured out Ianto’s identity, after all.” 

“That’s because he doesn’t care for Mr Holmes’s people. He _does_ care about you, though,” Toshiko points out. 

“True,” John admits. Then a thought occurs to him. “Our baby?" 

“She’s fine, John,” Toshiko takes out a few ultrasound pictures – bearing the name of Mary Morstan – and hands them to him. “That’s why I can’t have the cosmetic surgery just yet. I’ll have to give birth first and just go with the stupid prosthetics in the meantime.” 

“Are they very uncomfortable?” John carefully touches the artificial extensions to her face. He can remember actors complaining about the discomfort of wearing prosthetics on long filming days. 

Toshiko shrugs. “They’re not very pleasant. But it’s only for a few months, until the permanent surgery can be done,” he looks at John searchingly. “Will you terribly mind that I’m going to look differently for the rest of our lives?” 

“It will take some getting used to,” John admits. “I happen to _love_ your face the way it is now; it’s a very sweet face. But if I have to choose between having you dead with your own face or alive with a new one, I won’t have a problem with accepting the new one.” 

Toshiko’s eyes fill with tears. She steps closer to hug him. 

“I love you,” she murmurs. “I love you so much!” 

“I love you, too,” he replies. “That doesn’t mean I’m not incredibly angry at you… and at Mycroft… and at all the others who were in this thing. But I’m so insanely happy to have you back that I’m willing to forgive you. All of you. _This_ time. No more lies, though.” 

“No more lies,” Toshiko promises. “I’d have told you everything anyway, had that slimy devil Magnussen not interfered.” 

“I know,” John replies. “Your grandfather told me. Did any of your family know that you were alive all the time?" 

Toshiko shakes her head. “Only grandfather. I was afraid that his heart wouldn’t be able to deal with the shock. But don’t worry. He knows how to keep a secret.” 

“You don’t worry about your mother, though?” John is mildly surprised. “Or your brother?” 

“My mother,” Toshiko says slowly, “lives in a world of her own. I never truly had much of a role in that world. And Yoshi is strong. He can deal with my loss; until one day we may be able to tell him the truth.” 

“So, how is it going on from here?” John asks. “Are you staying in Cardiff?” 

Toshiko nods. “It’s safer this way; no-one knows me here. I’ve got a small teaching job at Cardiff University, until I go on maternity leave at the end of the term. Then, after the baby is born, I get my new face and we can decide together where we want to take our life.” 

John nods thoughtfully. Mycroft has masterfully arranged everything. He’ll be able to see his wife regularly during the pregnancy, and they’ll be able to reunite after the birth. That’s truly the best they could do under the circumstances. 

“Sounds good,” he says. “But seriously, _this_ hair colour? Are you going to keep it? ‘Cause it’s horrible.” 

“I’m not sure,” Toshiko grins. “I’m not particularly fond of it myself, but it’s suitable different from my natural colouring. Perhaps I could have it coloured blue later, like Lexa Doig’s character in _Andromeda_." 

John tries to imagine how she’d look with that metallic blue hair and finds the imaginary sight actually… appealing. 

“You know what?” he says. “I think I could get used to that. Now, Ms Morstan, would you allow me to check on my daughter and see how she’s faring?” 

“Of course, doctor,” Toshiko smiles and begins to unbutton her dress. 

_~The End~_


End file.
